Betrayal. (You want to know what it feels like?)
After all the stones have been hurled, after all the damage has been done, after she has uncontrollably smashed and broken and torn and scraped and fought and thrashed and punched the wall and grabbed and yanked at his heart like he has hers, after she has sworn and shouted and collapsed to her knees, after she has jumped back up in overwhelming fury to release what is left of the tornado and only after witnessing him truly suffering for his indiscretion, does she finally thunder through the front door, in a whirlwind of passionate distress, banging it firmly and with disgust behind her.
The hurt she has left behind, the pain she has caused, she can sense it in her rotten and decaying heart, it will be hanging thickly in the air between her little boy, sat rigid and silent holding a truck on the floor, frozen by fear, where until moments before he had been innocent to all this and happy, and HIM, the person with poisoned intentions, who purposely set out to break her, sitting with his head in his hands on the sofa behind him.
He may be sorry, she thought, as she paused on the street momentarily, her feet willing her to run, but sorry will never be enough.
The hot tears stream down her face, she wants to turn back, she wants to creep back in over the broken scene and scoop her beautiful little boy up in her arms, she wants to undo what has been done, protect them both, she wants to unravel the memories and start over.
They need her, she needs to be there, but it is too late.
All that was, has been stamped on.
It is lost.
Nothing can ever be the same again.
The pathway is muddy and sodden from too many futile attempts.
Not this time.
There can be no turning back.
She is propelled by an overpowering hurt, and she flees to the car.
After she has slammed her car door shut and sat for a moment, completely still.
After it has hit her all over again and she has exhausted herself by punching and head butting the cold hard steering wheel, after she has slammed her shins against the lower dash hard enough to make her cry out in pain, after she has screamed her frustration out in to a million air particles around her, after she has tried to pull out her own hair and gauge out her own eyes with shame she slowly begins to bury it again.
And she stills.
She sits and she stares for a while, through her life.
Through her moments of happiness, through the successes, through the victories that now, in this moment, after all of this, mean nothing.
Through the memories of cherished laughter and love and confluence, that now, after what he has done, after how she has reacted, all mean nothing.
The car is put in to gear, but she cannot be sure it is her who does this.
How could he do this to her?
When will this all end?
What will she do now?
Does he no longer love her?
The lights at the crossing turn red and she waits, but she is not sure what for.
How could he put her through this, again?
The sky is dark grey and the rain starts to blur out the windscreen.
She feels it building once again.
‘Just change!’ she mutters under her breath, trying to avoid making eye contact with the empty car seat filled to the brim with guilt reflected in her mirror, is she talking about the light?
‘I can’t do this!’ she bites her bottom lip hard, forcefully swiping in self loathing frustration at the trash strewn in the mucky seat, beside her.
A seat filled with failure.
A seat filled with chocolate wrappers and cigarette papers, a seat filled with debilitating insecurity and crushing loss. A seat filled with egotistical selfishness and worthlessness and negativity and exhaustion.
The light’s glow green above her and she slams her foot on the accelerator in a rush to reach… somewhere.
In a rush to arrive nowhere, anywhere, wherever.
She is desperate to quieten her mind of his betrayal and get truly lost from herself.
What she want’s, is it important?
Has it ever been important?
She needs to drive the past week away, she wants to drive the past two years away, and re – live it without the pain.
What she wants.
It can never be.
She wants to go where nobody knows her, where she can get lost and perhaps die without causing pain.
She wants to scream out for help and have people ignore her.
She wants to be allowed to end it.
She wants to kill, quieten but also ignite the pain, the pain she has spent the last year learning to barely feel.
She wants to feel it.
She wants it to take her.
The pain that has been hiding, and waiting and plotting silently in the wings.
Life is worth living…life is worth living.
No, she can no longer kid herself.
Her face is hot as the resentment returns in waves, over and over again, followed by acute disappointment and guilt.
Why is he so unreasonable?
Why does has he purposely done this?
Does he hate me?
Why does he want to hurt me?
Why am I such an awful person?
He is so weak.
I am so weak.
He will hurt me.
I hurt me.
Her face is hot and dirty.
The mascara streaked down her cheeks mapping out her spiraling demise.
She considers running her car off the road.
She considers high tailing in to the bridge.
She considers jumping.
But he knows.
She winces as she recalls the things she screamed about him.
But he cares.
She shifts in discomfort as she remembers the innocent face of her son, frozen.
From somewhere within, the steely and gritty resolve is born once again.
Overpowering the guilt.
Stop this now.
She sits for hours.
Or maybe seconds.
And she knows.
She has to go back.
For him too.
They need her.
She doesn’t deserve them.
She doesn’t check her reflection as she carelessly heads back towards her front door; she knows all she will see is evil.
Tonight she will harm herself.
She will burn in what she deserves, because he only treats her with care.
She will gift herself with the immense pain she has caused him.
She will teach her no good self, a lesson.
She creeps back in to the house, exhausted and in shock.
And as always he is there to hug her.
As she knew he would be.
She doesn’t want his hug.
Oh, but she does.
She longs to allow herself to feel it.
But she doesn’t feel, she deserves it.
‘I am sorry I forgot the milk.’ He whispers in her ear as he pulls her tight, never wanting to let her go.
And she hangs her head in shame.
The most evil part of her darkness has returned.
The self humiliating, sinister and uncontrollable, overwhelming and frightening, overpowering and devastating, unexpected and uninvited, destructive and crushing self destroying, anger, fear, loss, hurt and shame.
I am not a ‘Drama Queen.’
Do not tell me I had a ‘mood swing’ and to ‘pull myself together.’
He forgot the milk, and I was tortured so cruelly by myself, that I felt dying would be the easier way out.
This is an illness.
Not a Joke.
And never a Choice.